Behind the Bookshelves
by Silvestria
Summary: A chance meeting in London in the summer before sixth year between Harry and Hermione leads to sparks flying... or at least Hermione wishes it did. Can any boy really be THAT oblivious? Contains OoP spoilers. Already reviewed as excellent.


Behind the Bookshelves **

Behind the Bookshelves

**

In an obscure part of London was a narrow, dark alley. On one side of this alley was a dark, obscure bookshop, called _Morton's Antique Book Dealers_. It was dimly lit and dusty and smelt of old books, quietly decaying unnoticed. 

Inside, all was silent. Some light filtered through the grimy windows but the rest of it came from an old oil lamp perched on top of Mr. Morton's counter. The owner of the shop, Mr. Morton, after so long living in company with his precious books now rather resembled them himself- dusty and decaying. 

Every inch of the walls was covered with bookshelves; high and imposing. Ceiling high book cases also jutted out at right angles to the walls. A few rickety wooden ladders and chairs littered the shop to allow access to the higher shelves. On the very highest rung of one of those ladders, tucked away about half way into the cavernous depths of _Morton's_, balanced Hermione Granger. 

In her left arm she had tucked the first five volumes of Gibbons' _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_ and her right was employed in slotting the volumes onto the top shelf, in order. 

The ladder was rickety, and Hermione was a little nervous. It was not as if she was afraid of heights, or the ladder breaking or anything like that- of course not! She slowly transferred the next volume from her left arm to her right hand and studied the faint words on the spine. 

"Volume Three," she muttered, "that would come after Volume Two." She peered at the books already on place on the shelf, wishing there was more light. "Odd," she murmured, her eyebrows contracting in thought. "We have Volume One and then we have Volume Four, but apparently not Volume Two." She shifted her balance on the ladder, steadied herself and considered the situation. "Perhaps," she concluded, "it is on the chair, and I missed it." 

So she clambered carefully down the ladder and sifted through the books waiting to be sorted. "Kitto- no, _1066 and All That_- what's that doing here? Ah- Gibbons- Volume Two! Perfect!" 

She picked up the correct volume and stared up at the bookcase. The shop was so dark she could not see the top of the ladder. She sighed. Why had she had to watch _The Mummy_ just a week before? She shuddered and gently kicked the bottom of the shelf; she was relieved when it did not budge. Honestly- what was she thinking of? She climbed back up the ladder and repeated the slow process of putting the books on the shelf. 

There was a sudden, muffled jangle from the front of the shop. Someone had come into the shop. Hermione was surprised. In the week that she had been working there, they had only had one customer. 

She could hear his footsteps on the dusty floor and the dry cough of Mr. Morton as he emerged from his office. A floorboard creaked. Hermione listened, anxiously awaiting any command. 

"Good morning, my boy, how may I help you?" inquired Mr. Morton, in his croaky, disused voice. 

"Um," came the the reply. "I was, er, wondering if you had, er, this book." 

Hermione almost dropped Volume Five in shock. It was _Harry_ who had just entered the shop! What was _he_ doing there? 

Mr. Morton shuffled round towards Harry, so she imagined. "Show me the name of the book you're interested in, please. Ah, thank-you. One moment while I get my glasses. Thank-you, thank-you, my boy. Now, let's see..." Pause. "He must be reading the note," Hermione thought. "Now, now, my boy!" exclaimed Mr. Morton incredulously, "you won't be needing it for yourself, surely!" 

"Er, no," replied Harry. "Actually, it's for my cousin." 

"You cousin, eh? I take it he's a bit... you see what I mean?" 

Harry chuckled a little. "I suppose you could say that," he said. Hermione's curiosity increased. 

"Now you mention it, in fact, I remember someone ringing up about this very book. It wasn't you, by any chance? Though I seem to remember a woman's voice." 

"It was probably my aunt," replied Harry. "Apparently this is the only bookshop in England that stocks it." Hermione was almost falling off the ladder in interest to know what was going on. 

"Well now, is it really? Who'd have thought it?" mused the shopkeeper in mild surprise. "Anyway, it should be back there. I'll get my assistant to help you find it. Hermione!" he bellowed. 

Hermione, who had been waiting hopefully for this moment, almost slid down the ladder in her haste. She plonked Gibbons' without ceremony on the chair and rushed out of the History Aisle and through into the front shop. "You called, Mr. Morton?" she cried, out of breath, trying not to look at Harry. 

"Hermione!" exclaimed Harry. 

"Hello, Harry!" replied Hermione, catching his eye and smiling. 

Mr. Morton looked from one to the other and came to the obvious conclusion. "You know each other?" 

"Yeah, we go to the same school," said Harry, without taking his eyes off Hermione. "I say, Hermione, I didn't know you worked here. Actually, I didn't know you worked, full stop." 

"Well, I do," she replied shortly, aware of her employer's eyes on her. "Mr. Morton, this is my good friend, Harry Potter. Harry, this is Mr. Morton. I've known him since I was a child." 

Harry held out his hand and said, "How do you do, Mr. Morton?" 

"Very well, thank-you. How do you do, Mr. Potter? It's a pleasure to meet you. Tell me, Hermione, have you finished the History Aisle?" He put a hand on Hermione's shoulder and turned back to Harry. "A clever girl, is my Hermione. She works hard, you know." 

"Yes, I know," replied Harry, clearly unaware that he was smiling. 

Mr. Morton broke the heavy silence following this seemingly innoculous reply by saying, "Right then, Hermione, go and find Mr. Potter's book, if you please." 

"Of course, Mr. Morton. Come along, Harry. What's the book?" 

He handed her a piece of note paper without speaking. On it was written, _Ancient Chinese Remedies for Obesity_. Hermione hid a smile. No wonder Mr. Morton was surprised Harry wanted it. Harry was hardly obese! In fact, she thought drawing in her breath sharply, he was really very slender. She looked back up at Mr. Morton and said, quite demurely, "This book, I presume, would be under 'Health'." 

He gave her a toothy smile. "That's right. And 'Health' is the very last aisle- number fifteen. You haven't got round to arranging that section yet, so the books might be a little out of order. Anyway, good luck with your book, Mr. Potter." 

"Thanks," replied Harry, as he disappeared down the side of shop with Hermione. 

Mr. Morton coughed and shuffled back into his office, a smile on his face. "So his name's Potter, is it?" he murmured. He stared at a sheet of blotting paper on his desk, then grasped a biro in his knarled, old hand and scrawled in one corner, _Hermione Potter_. "Not so bad, not so bad," he muttered and gave a sudden chuckle. 

* * *

Meanwhile, Harry was eagerly interrogating Hermione on her holidays. "So, how come you're working here? I say, it's pretty dark, isn't it?" 

"One question at a time, please, Harry!" cried Hermione, laughing. 

"Sorry. It's just- I haven't seen you for ages and so we've got loads to catch up with." 

"It's been hardly three weeks since we broke up. Not exactly 'ages'." 

"Well, it felt like ages," replied Harry defensively. 

"I know what you mean," said Hermione, though so quietly that he could hardly make out what she had said. 

"How far does this shop go back?" exclaimed Harry in surprise. "Anyway, you were saying-" 

"You see, I've always come here for books since I was very young. There are amazing things here- Harry! Books that are no longer in print, first editions, everything! It's heaven! Anyway, this Friday is my parent's twentieth wedding anniversary and they wanted to go away on their own for the week." 

Harry looked shocked. "Don't you mind?" 

She shrugged. "Of course not. They've never been away without me before and of course they need their time together." 

"Where have they gone?" 

"Cambridge. They met there, while they were both studying for their PhDs. I don't think they've actually been back since. It must be lovely for them. Anyway, where better to leave me than with old Mr. Morton who has known me all my life and would take good care of me, even if," she lowered her voice, "he is a bit odd. Still, I work for him, and he lets me board with him. It's pleasant, but very quiet. Ah, here we are!" 

They turned into the final aisle. The gloom was so deep they could hardly see. Harry put his hands on his hips. "Well, where is it?" 

Hermione looked up the infinitely tall bookcases. She shook her head in despair. "It could be anywhere. Well, we had better start looking, hadn't we? I'll go and get the ladder; you look along the lower shelves." She wandered away, leaving Harry feeling a little bewildered. He shrugged his shoulders, muttered, "If Hermione says so, it must be so," and crouched down and began scanning the spines of the books on the bottom shelf. 

They worked in this way for almost an hour in silence, punctuated only by comments from Harry along the lines of, "You'd think they'd keep a torch here, wouldn't you!" and "I don't know how you can stand it, Hermione! You're a marvel!" which were received in dead silence. 

Eventually, a shout from Hermione, almost a metre above Harry's head and somewhat to the right, announced in triumph, "Eureka, Harry! I've found it!" Harry jumped up and ran to the bottom of the ladder. 

"Are you sure?" he called, tipping his neck. 

"Of course I'm sure! It's called _Ancient Chinese Remedies for Obesity_, isn't it?" 

"That's right," answered Harry, trying not to peep up Hermione's skirt. Fortunately, it was too dark to see much. He grinned and shook the ladder slightly. 

Hermione shrieked. "Don't even think about it! How dare you!" He carried on shaking. "Harry, I command you to stop it! Harry, I'm going to fall!" 

"Don't worry- I'll catch you!" He gave a last jiggle to the ladder and Hermione, with a long scream, fell into his arms, book and all. They stood still like that for a few seconds, getting their breath back. Finally, Hermione blew the dust off the book into his face and said, "Well, here's your book. Put me down." 

Harry coughed loudly and lowered her gently to the floor. Hermione leaned against the bookcase. For some reason, she was quite out of breath and her legs felt like jelly. Oddly enough, so did Harry's. 

When they had both recovered Harry took the book, which was quite small with a black leather cover, from Hermione's hands. He gave her a sheepish grin. "I'd better go pay for this, I suppose." 

He left the aisle, followed by Hermione. As he walked cheerfully along, he flicked through the book. He abruptly stopped. Hermione bumped into him. He turned round, his face a brilliant shade of red. "Er, Hermione, now I know that I'm not very well up on Ancient Chinese medicine, but I simply cannot imagine a cure for obesity that involves a, er, naked man sitting on a naked woman doing, er, things. Er..." 

Hermione, who was standing too close to him for comfort, took a step backwards in horror. "What! Let me see!" 

He handed the book over and she looked at the page he had opened it at. Her eyes widened and her face too became tinged with red. She quickly snapped the book shut. She looked at the spine and, going even redder if possible, "Harry, this is _Karma Sutra_!" 

"Er, right." 

She looked at him suspiciously. "You do know what that is?" 

He looked sheepish. "Actually, no. When I was about eight Dudley mentioned it at dinner once. I don't think he knew what it was either, but just wanted to show off. The Dursleys got so embarrassed and angry that it was nearest to being punished that has ever happened to Dudley. He was sent to his room with nothing but a carton of mini magnums and a litre bottle of fanta. I've never forgotten that day." 

Hermione fidgited. "Harry, it's the oldest ever guide to sex. I thought you should know that." Hermione had never been so embarrassed. She had just said the 's' word to a boy! All right, it was Harry whom she had known for four years, but that did not change it, much. 

Harry looked as uncomfortable as she felt. "Er, thanks for that, Hermione. You'd never know in what polite society I might blurt that out, if I didn't know." 

Hermione did not reply. She was holding the book at arm's length. Harry cleared his throat and said, "Well, we'd better put that back and get the correct book." 

Hermione did not move. 

"Hermione," he cried, "my train leaves at twenty to three. I don't know what time it is now, but I feel I need to be moving." 

Hermione looked at her watch. "We have plenty of time. It's only quarter to one." 

They returned to the 'Health' section and Hermione climbed up the ladder, found the correct volume, checked it, climbed carefully back down and they returned quietly to the front of the shop. 

The Book-That-Must-Not-Be-Named was left on the floor in the gloom of the fifteenth aisle, not to be discovered again for many years. 

When Mr. Morton heard Harry and Hermione's return, he shuffled out of his office to behind the counter. He picked up the book and smiled at the two young people. "So, you found it?" 

Hermione nodded, trying her best to sound efficient. "Indeed we did, Mr. Morton. It took a long time, but we found it." 

He started wrapping the book up in brown paper. "Well, it sounded like you were enjoying yourselves back there, as you searched. That'll be nine pounds ninety nine, please, Mr. Potter." 

As Harry rummaged in his wallet for a ten pound note, Hermione replied with a blush, "Oh, I suppose you mean the shouting. I'm sorry about that. It was just-" 

Mr. Morton waved his hand. "Never mind, Hermione, never mind." His eyes crinkled into a smile. "Everybody's young once. Here's your receipt, Mr. Potter, one penny change and your book. I hope very much your cousin may benefit from it." 

"Thank-you, Sir," replied Harry. He edged towards the door. "I suppose I'd better, er, go now. I'll not keep you from your work any longer, Hermione." He gazed beseechingly at her. 

Mr. Morton stepped forward and coughed. "Perhaps... allow me, Mr. Potter." He turned formally to Hermione. "My dear Hermione, you have worked hard since last Saturday. Perhaps you would like an afternoon off? Go and enjoy yourself with Harry." 

Hermione's countenance lifted instantly. Harry's, however, sank a few fathoms. "It's very kind of you, Mr. Morton, really it is, but I have a train in two hours. I really don't have time." 

Mr. Morton smiled and leaned over the counter. "Never mind, my dear boy, if you travel on a Virgin train, you can guarantee it will be at least half an hour late. Or maybe it will never come at all." He winked. "Go out and enjoy yourself." He pressed a twenty pound note into Hermione's palm. "The lunch is on me." 

She stared at him in delighted surprise. "Why, thank-you, Mr. Morton. How very, very kind of you!" Harry too mouthed his gratitude. 

As they were leaving the shop, Mr. Morton suddenly asked Hermione, "When are you sixteen, my dear?" 

Hermione looked at him curiously. "I already am. I'm seventeen in September. Why do you ask?" 

He shook his head, a slight frown on his face. "Well, you're still young." 

Hermione still seemed puzzled. "What do you mean?" 

He looked back up at them. "Nothing, my dear. Just- be cautious and don't do anything rash." 

Hermione flushed as she understood him. "Goodbye, Mr. Morton. Thank-you very much for the lunch. Come on, Harry." The shop door jangled as she pushed it open. 

Mr. Morton raised a hand in a salute and they left in silence. Once they were outside, however, Harry stopped and shaking his head in confusion cried, "Hermione, just what was your Mr. Morton going on about back there?" 

Hermione raised her eyes skywards and continued walking. "You don't want to know, Harry," she said. "You really don't want to know..." 

* * *

"I take it," said Hermione as they walked along, "that your uncle and aunt have finally realised that Dudley is overweight." 

Harry gave a solemn smile. "You're right. He went to the doctor's a few weeks ago about a verruca." 

Hermione snorted. 

"It's not funny- they're very painful! Anyway, the doctor took one look at him and said flatly that if his weight was not reduced then he would be dead before he was thirty. It shocked them a bit. And now Dudley's complaints are put aside and he is trying every possible remedy. Aunt Petunia even volunteered him for some scientific gene research. Uncle Vernon's worried too. After all, he's not exactly a stick insect himself." 

"And this book is a last resort?" 

"You could say so. But I don't mind. It's given me a bit of independence and, of course, the chance of meeting up with you- a complete surprise!" 

They exchanged a smile which made Hermione feel a little nervous. It was a gradual, warm, almost secretive smile. It was the sort of smile that two people who are in on a secret share. Hermione knew for a fact that, even if she was, Harry was _not_ in on any secret. It warmed the cockles of her heart, and she wrapped her arms round it and hugged it. 

"Are you going to be meeting Ron this summer?" asked Harry abruptly. 

"Huh?" said Hermione, slammed back onto the ground with the force of a portkey. 

"I was just wondering if you were going to the Burrow or Grimmauld Place?" he repeated tentatively. 

"Oh, yes, I think so. Are you?" 

"Yes, in about two weeks. I can't wait to see Ron, Fred and George, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Ginny, of course. They're like a family to me." 

Hermione's smile faded slightly. "Harry," she said tentatively, "are you alright?" 

He looked at her wearily. "I guess. I'll live." He paused. "Sirius-" his voice broke a little, "-wouldn't have wanted me to always be unhappy. I have to get on with life, while... I have it." 

Now that she looked at him closely, she saw how tired he looked. There were dark circles under his bright green eyes and his face was pale and wan. She met his eyes and gazed at him sorrowfully. "You have me, Harry." 

The corners of his mouth twitched. He swallowed and then nodded. "Yes, I know." He smiled and hestitantly drew her arm through his. 

Hermione hardly dared to hope. Harry seemed to be trying to make up his mind about something. Eventually he said, with difficulty, "You know, I hope you don't mind, but-" it all came out in a rush, "if I could choose any girl in Hogwarts to be my honourary sister, I'd choose you. But I suppose you already know that." 

Hermione closed her eyes a second. When she opened them she smiled and said sweetly, "Of course I don't mind. I'd love to be your honourary sister." Inwardly, she groaned. 

At the first opportunity, she withdrew her arm and asked Harry where he wanted to eat lunch. 

Typically, Harry shrugged. "I dunno. I've only ever been to London a few times. The Dursleys don't go out much. I've been to McDonald's, Pizza Hut, Burger King and all those sort of places, but that's it. Where do you want to go?" 

Hermione shuddered at Harry's culinary deprivation. "Well, what sort of food do you like? We can't really go to a pub on our own, I'm afraid, because we're under age. It could be awkward." 

Harry was open to all suggestions. 

Hermione sometimes wished Harry was a bit more decisive. As the girl, she found making all the decisions a little tiring at times. "We'll go to Café Uno. It's a chain, and fearfully expensive, but OK for what it is. You can have a pizza or something." She remembered what her mother had once told her, "If you ever have children, Hermione, just remember that you can't go wrong with pizza." 

"Sounds good," replied Harry, grinning. Hermione sighed. Why was her mother _always_ right? 

As they headed for the nearest branch of Café Uno, Hermione noticed that Harry seemed very silent. Eventually Harry said, going red, "Hermione, you know that book?" 

"Which one?" 

"You know," he replied evasively, "_that_ one." 

"Oh! _That_ one! What about it?" 

Harry rubbed his nose in embarrassment. "It's just- well- what I mean is- that is to say-" 

Hermione wished the conversation over with. She did not particularly mind helping Harry with understanding Cho but she heartily hoped that he was not about to ask her what she thought those two people in the picture were doing. That would be- 

"I mean, how did _you_ know what the book was?" 

"Oh! Me? Well, that's perfectly simple." She exhaled in relief. Then, a dire suspicion entered her head. "Harry, you surely didn't think that I'd been _reading_ it, did you?" She glared at him when she saw how sheepish he looked. "Honestly Harry, what do you take me for? No, all it is is that there is a magical version of it." 

"A magical version? How is that different?" 

"Use your imagination, Harry! The pictures move. Does that satisfy your curiosity?" 

Harry's cheeks resembled the Gryffindor flag, newly dyed. "Yes, but how do you know?" 

"There's a copy in the Hogwarts' library- in the restricted section. When I was looking for the book on the polyjuice potion in second year, I found it by accident." 

"There's a copy in the school library?!" cried Harry, distraught, and just a little bit curious. "What on earth was Dumbledore thinking of? Anyway, you found it. How on earth do you know the pictures move?" 

Hermione was feeling a bit fed up by these questions. "All right, Harry, so I looked at it! What's wrong with that?" 

Harry looked incredulous. "But-but!" he spluttered. "Hermione- you were thirteen. I didn't think that-" 

"Honestly, Harry, you should know that girls mature a lot quicker than boys do." 

Harry looked shocked. "But- I thought you- oh well!" 

Hermione felt irritated in the extreme. Whoever had said that teenage boys had dirty minds had clearly got the wrong end of the stick entirely. Compared to Harry, her two month old cousin, Phoebe, simply lived in the gutter. 

Soon enough, they reached the restaurant, found a table and ordered food. Harry had a pizza margherita, as predicted, and Hermione had a penne all'arrabiata. 

When they had ordered the food and drinks, Hermione headed off to the ladies'. One glance in the mirror convinced her that she looked a sight. 

Her hair was all over the place- knotted and untidy. Her face was smudged as was her white blouse. Dirty fingerprints were all over it. Her dark tights had grey patches at the knees where she had been kneeling on the floor and the sole of her left shoe was slightly loose. She sighed and attempted to brush down her blouse. The problem only got worse. She splashed her face with water and then rubbed it until it was red and shiny, with plenty of paper towels. 

Then, she emptied her handbag onto the sink in the hope of finding a comb. Purse, bus pass, library card, folded sheet of paper containing all the spells she'd need sixth year Charms, a postcard from Parvati, half a packet of sugar free polos, a token advertising free cans of Whisker's Chicken and Lamb cat food from Sainsbury's when bought with one of their top ten CDs and, most importantly- her wand all tumbled out. But alas and alack- no comb. Well, why would she carry a comb about? thought Hermione angrily. Her appearance had never been of importance before, so why did it matter now? 

She looked ironically at her reflection. "Guess who's not Helen of Troy?" she said out loud. 

A plump, red face, middle aged lady who had just emerged from one of the cubicles, heard her comment and smiling, said, "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, dearie. Just you remember that!" 

Hermione turned curiously towards her. 

The woman continued, "Anyone who really appreciates you would think you beautiful even if you grew an extra head. Look at me- nothing much as you can see, yet I've been married. And all of the men have treated me well. Aye- all three of them." 

"All _three_ of them?" repeated Hermione faintly. 

The woman was still reminiscing. "But I always had a fond spot for Joe, my second..." She shook her head and brightly continued to Hermione. "Anyway, who'd want to be Helen of Troy? She got a war started on her behalf. That wasn't very nice now, was it? And besides, just think how much pressure there'd be on you if you were the most beautiful woman in the world? Think how long you'd have to be about your toilette!" She grinned at Hermione. "Love, just see if I'm not right!" 

Hermione thanked her and re-emerged into the restaurant. Harry was sitting where she had left him, fiddling with his cutlery. When he saw her, he grinned. She sat down opposite him, feeling unaccountably nervous. It seemed to her as if the whole world would consider them as if they were going out. They were sitting opposite each other, in a fancy restaurant. She felt suddenly self concious. 

"I'm afraid I couldn't do anything about my hair," she said, anxiously tucking a loose strand behind her ear. 

Harry looked up and stared at her head. Then he smiled. "It looks OK to me." 

Hermione stared at him. Did he just compliment her? She blushed slightly. 

"Er," said Harry, embarrassed by her vague staring at him, "How's Viktor?" 

She snapped out of her reverie. "Viktor? I don't know. Okay, I suppose." 

"You haven't seen him?" asked Harry, in surprise. "I thought you were writing to him?" 

"Yes, we are. But I haven't heard from him for ages. I don't think we really have much in common, actually." 

"Are you really just penpals, then? Ron thinks that-" 

"I know what Ron thinks," interrupted Hermione, "and he's wrong. Viktor made it perfectly plain that we couldn't have any sort of relationship if we both lived in different countries. I'm just glad that we're still friends of sorts." 

Harry looked sympathetic. "I'm sorry about the long distance problem. He was quite nice, after all. And a smashing quidditch player," he added as an afterthought. 

Hermione almost groaned. Sometimes she wished Harry was just a little less _nice_! She tried to set Harry right, "It was a good thing that it ended. It would never have worked out." 

Harry looked melancholy. "Still, it's a shame." 

Fortunately, the food arrived before Hermione resorted to drastic measures. 

After they had eaten and Hermione had payed the bill, they emerged, full and almost satisfied, into muggle London. Harry looked at his watch. "Good, we still have about half an hour until I need to get the tube to Waterloo. What shall we do? I really don't know London at all. What do you suggest?" 

Hermione got her bearings. "Well, we're just opposite the Oxford Circus tube station. We could just go one stop up the Bakerloo line to Regent's Park. How about it?" 

Harry shrugged. "What's there to do in Regent's Park, Hermione?" 

"Well, there's a zoo, though we don't have time for that. We could just sit on a bench for a bit." 

Harry checked his watch. "I suppose that would do. We don't have much time, after all. Let's go." 

They caught the tube and soon after entered the park. Instantly a sense of calm perpetrated both of them. Mothers pushed pushchairs round the pathways, business men sat on benches and worked on their laptops, teenagers laughed and joked. Harry and Hermioned wandered around a little. 

"I like this," said Harry eventually. They had been strolling in silence for some time. "It's very peaceful. Do you want to sit down?" 

"Where?" asked Hermione, who was aware that everyone they passed probably thought they were a couple, and was wondering why they were not holding hands. 

"What about the grass? I don't mind grass stains, and it isn't wet." 

"For once!" laughed Hermione. They turned off the path and sat down on the lawn. Harry lay on his back, his hands folded behind his head. He stared up at the swirling grey clouds. Hermione sat cross legged next to him, making sure her skirt was safely tucked over knees. She listened to a black bird singing in a nearby tree and heard the plaintive cry of a nearby infant- "Mummy! I want an ice-cream! Why can't I have an ice-cream? You got Deborah a lolly yesterday! Look, mummy- a Walls van, will you get me one? Please, mummy!" and their mother's exhausted reply of, "Not today, Sam. It's too cold, Now come along!" 

Without removing his gaze from the sky, Harry said pensively, "I think she should have let the little boy have his ice-cream if he wanted it so much." 

Hermione shook her head. "I disagree with you there. As a mother, she is responsible for the intake of fatty foods of her children. Now if it had been an apple, that's different. Besides, she should not give in to her children's every demand, because that shows she lacks authority." 

"But," argued Harry, "the boy said she had given someone called Deborah a lolly the day before. If she doesn't give the boy one, then that's favouratism. All children should be treated equally." 

Hermione saw the Harry she was talking to then. It was Harry the deprived child. She forbore to argue any further. "You're right there," she said, "if Deborah was his sister, but we really can't speculate without knowing the particulars." 

Harry let the conversation drop and Hermione watched a lanky young student sit down on a bench, open a file and start to sift through some papers. A sudden gust of wind caught the sheets and they flitted round him. The student leapt up and snatched at them. Hermione giggled as one loose sheet did a complicated dance up to a curious poodle, belonging to a little old lady in a red bobble hat with a pink extendable lead. 

"Hermione," said Harry dreamily, "why did you kiss me?" 

"What?" Hermione focused all her attention on her friend. "When did I kiss you?" 

"At the station, remember? At the end of fourth year. Surely you can't have forgotten? It slipped my mind, but I didn't forget. I wondered why." 

Memory flooded back and Hermione blushed. "Oh, that! _Of course_ I haven't forgotten." 

"Why did you?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"You know what I mean," replied Harry, slightly less placidly. "I'm asking you why you leant across to me and invaded my personal space, why you leaned so close to me that I could even smell your breath hot on my face, why you pursed your lips and touched my right cheek with them for a few seconds. I'm asking you why you kissed me." 

Harry had probably never said anything quite so racy before. He was looking straight at her, a faint blush spreading over his cheeks. Hermione felt uncomfortable under his gaze. "Did my breath smell bad? Was that... what you meant?" 

He held her stare. "No, it smelt of strawberries, actually. The lovely wild sort that grow near the Forbidden Forest in the Summer Term. You know." 

Hermione's jaw almost dropped. Harry waxing lyrical about her breath- impossible! She completely took back what she had thought earlier on in the afternoon. Harry seemed well aware of her charms, and even appeared to be flirting with her. No, _that_ really was impossible. Harry would not know how to flirt if his life depended on it. The Cho affair (thankfully over!) had shown that. 

"So why _did_ you kiss me?" said Harry. 

Hermione paused to consider exactly why she had done that completely spontaneous action that had happened now over a year ago. "I think... I think I did it, Harry, because I couldn't bear to see you go off with the Dursleys without doing anything. You looked so miserable. Ron and I both had fun summers to look forward to- or we thought we had, but all you had were your thoughts of Cedric's death and You-Know-Who's return to haunt you for two months. I couldn't let you go, I just couldn't, without showing some sign of how I felt for you and how much I would be thinking of you and a pat on the back, a handshake, even a hug didn't seem quite strong enough." 

There was an odd haunted look on Harry's face. At last he whispered, his voice shaking, "How did you know? How did you _know_, Hermione?" 

There was nothing but compassion in Hermione's eyes as she moved to kneel by his side. "Because I've been friends with you for four years, through thick and thin. Because I care for you, Harry. Because I love you." 

They held each other's gaze until Hermione felt her eyes water and she was forced to look away. Harry looked down at the ground and pulled up a tuft of grass. "Oh," he said softly. 

Hermione did not reply but merely looked at him sorrowfully. Suddenly, she leant forward and placed her hands on his shoulders. "Harry," she said very, very quietly, "you know how much you mean to me. And if you don't, then you should." She smiled sadly, leant forwards and kissed him on the forhead. She let her lips linger there a few seconds longer than was exactly appropriate, then sat up straight. Harry was staring at her, wide eyed. 

Hermione's glance caught her watch and she started. "Oh, Harry!" she cried, the beautiful moment lost for ever. 

Harry jerked himself into an upright position. "My train-" he cried. 

"-leaves in exactly two minutes!" finished Hermione. 

"And Waterloo-" continued Harry, in desparation. 

"-is right on the other side of London." They looked at each other bleakly. 

"What shall we do?" said Harry finally. 

Hermione frowned and thought in silence. Finally- "Let's go to the cinema." 

"Are you out of your mind?" 

Hermione smiled and shook her head. "Do you really _want_ to go back the Dursleys tonight all that much? I can put you up at Morton's. It'll be quite all right. Besides, there's a film I really want see and I think it's on at the Odeon." 

When put like this, it was hard for Harry to resist, so he gave up trying. He stood up and brushed the grass off his jeans. They returned to the path and soon after left the park. One tube ride later, they found themselves outside a large, multi-screen cinema. Hermione plunged inside, Harry following her. "I've only been to the cinema once," he said apprehensively. 

"What did you see?" Hermione asked, joining the back of the ticket queue. 

"I was with the Dursleys. It was one of Dudley's birthdays and we saw _Jurassic Park_. It scarred me for life. I hope you're not planning to take me to see a film like that because I really don't like them." 

"Don't worry, Harry! It isn't anything like that. Though, now I think of it, _Crap Parody of Crap Slasher Movie XIII_ has just been released. We could always see that instead." 

"You're teasing me," said Harry flatly. 

"You noticed," replied Hermione drily, moving forward a few paces in the queue. 

"So what are we seeing?" 

"Well, it's called _Evelina_. It's a low budget adaption of one my of favourite books, by Fanny Burney." 

"Never heard of it." 

"It's very little known, but it's a simply excellent book," said Hermione, picking up the familiar thread. "Fanny Burney was writing at the end of the 18th century. Jane Austen was down on a list to order her second novel, _Cecilia_." She paused and looked at Harry suspiciously. "You have heard of Jane Austen, haven't you? Anyway, she has a wonderful taste for comedy and drama and I'm always thought that _Evelina_, her first novel, would make a splendid film. I shouldn't worry, Harry. It's a gentle romance with plenty of comedy moments in period costumes. It's only 'PG' rated," she added as an afterthought. 

"Well, we'll see," said Harry, looking only partially convinced. "Who's in it?" 

"Emilia Fox, Rupert Everett and Johnny Depp," she recited, off pat. "Look- there's a poster on the wall over there." 

Harry looked. The poster showed a pretty girl in Regency costume staring demurely at her feet. On her right was Rupert Everett, arms folded, surveying her with a mixture of admiration and contempt. On her left was Johnny Depp, prostrate at her feet. Above them was written in swirly writing- _Evelina. Follow your heart. But don't to lose it on the way._

Harry wrinkled his nose. "It's looks, I dunno, a bit, well, girly." 

"You'll _love_ it!" cried Hermione cheerfully, before turning her attention to the ticket seller. 

"So," said Harry, as they went up an escalator to the sweet shop, "what's it all about?" 

Hermione was only too happy to oblige. "Emilia Fox plays Evelina who has lived in the country all her life who is plunged into high society London. Being very pretty, she attracts a lot of attention. She soon meets Lord Orville, who is very handsome and charming- Rupert Everett plays him, only because she behaves so badly at the ball, not knowing all the customs being from the country, he thinks she is a hopeless case and doesn't think about her much to begin with. She also meets Sir Clement Willoughby- that's Johnny Depp- who is entranced by her beauty. He falls head over heels in love with Evelina, or perhaps more like head over heels in _lust_. However, she won't have anything to do with him because he is a bit of an idiot, and sometimes behaves with a rash disregard to decorum when it comes to her. She already gave her heart to dear Lord Orville before she knew it was hers to give." Hermione trailed off, a dreamy look on her face as she considered the hero of the novel, whom Fanny Burney descibed as _...about six-and-twenty years old, gayly, but not foppishly, dressed, and indeed extremely handsome, with an air of mixed politeness and gallantry..._. 

"I'm confused," stated Harry. 

Five minutes later, with medium sized salted popcorns in their arms, they were entering Screen Seven, where a performance would be starting in a couple of minutes. 

They entered the theatre and looked for a seat. Harry nudged Hermione and whispered, "Look, the only people here are a group of middle aged women." 

Hermione did look and saw that Harry was right. The back rows were completely taken up with a party of women past their prime, who were giggling and passing round the sherbet lemons and mint imperials. She led Harry into an empty row near the front. 

As they settled down and advertisements rolled across the screen, Hermione hissed to Harry, "Carl Davies wrote the score." 

"So?" 

"He wrote the score to _Pride and Prejudice_ too!" She was fairly jigging up and down in her seat in excitement. 

They watched the opening of the film in silence, apart from the rustling of the popcorn. The only comment Harry made was when Emilia Fox first appeared as Evelina. He turned to Hermione. "What did you say her name was again? She's pretty." 

Hermione just glared. However, when the ball scene arrived, and Rupert Everett approached poor Evelina and asked her if she would like to dance, she could not help nudging Harry and whispering, "Look, it's Lord Orville! It's Lord Orville, Harry!" Harry merely stared stonily at the screen and ate more popcorn. 

Nevertheless, as the film advanced, Harry became more absorbed. He laughed especially at Madame Duval, who, he explained later to Hermione, reminded him of Aunt Marge only with a French accent. 

However, by the time they reached the scene where Lord Merton was behaving offensively to Evelina, the only thing that concerned him was Evelina and Lord Orville's coming to an understanding. When Lady Louisa took her brother's arm in her fright, Evelina cried out, "_Would to heaven that I too had such a brother!_" and Lord Orville took her arm and said, "_Will Miss Anville allow _me_ the honour of taking that title?"_, Harry slapped the arm of his chair in frustration and said, unaware that he was quoting another famous novel, "Brother and sister! No, indeed!" 

Hermione, who knew the story, merely smiled to herself. 

At the show down between Sir Clement and Lord Orville, a little later on, Harry was muttering "Fight! Fight!" under his breath. When Sir Clement claimed that Lord Orville's interest in Evelina was _very generous: but, except in a father,- a brother,- or a lover,-_ and Lord Orville replied that _he acknowledged he had not the right of enquiry which any of those three titles bestew..._, Harry nodded sharply and whispered, "Yet!" 

Hermione was pleased. She had made a good decision to bring Harry to this film. Besides that, it was exceptionally well dramatised, and she was enjoying it very much herself. 

They stayed right to end of the credits, soaking up the excellent score. At the end, they emerged bleary eyed but very satisfied. "That was _brilliant_, Hermione!" cried Harry once they were out of the cinema. "I loved it!" 

"Good," replied Hermione. "I'm glad. So did I. I'll get it on video when it comes out." 

"I wonder..." said Harry, thoughtfully, "I wonder if that bookshop of yours has a copy of _Evelina_. I'd like to read it." 

Hermione smiled like a cat with the cream. "Morton's has everything. I'll buy you _Evelina_, _Cecilia_ and _Camilla_ as your birthday present. Something for you to get your teeth into when you're back at the Dursleys." 

Harry's face fell. "I'd forgotten all about them. I suppose I'll have to contact them sometime." 

Hermione shook her head. "No need. My parents return tomorrow and they'll run you back to Surrey." 

"Are you sure, Hermione? That's pretty generous of you." 

Hermione smiled. "It's no problem, honestly. They'd love to meet you again. Now, we'd better get back so we can sort out where you're going to sleep." 

* * *

Mr. Morton did not appear at all surprised to see Harry again. 

"I assume you missed your train, didn't you?" he said calmly. 

Harry scruffed his feet nervously. "Yeah. Sorry to bother you. I can find a B&B to stay at, I suppose." 

"Nonsense, Harry!" protested Hermione. "You can have my bed, if Mr. Morton doesn't mind my sleeping in his office." 

While Harry adamently shook his head, Mr. Morton adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose and said, "I'm afraid I object, Hermione." 

Hermione looked surprised. 

"Mr. Potter must not rob you of your bed, and therefore of your beauty sleep. My dear boy, _I_ shall take the couch, and you my bed." 

Both friends protested at this sacrifice very loudly. At last, it was decided that Mr. Morton should keep his bed and Harry and Hermione should buy a couple of sleeping bags, a fire lamp and plenty of snacks (sugar free, if possible!) and camp out in the shop. 

Half an hour later, saw Harry and Hermione in a city centre branch of Sainsbury's. Harry was pushing the trolley around while Hermione ticked items off the list. They were both very excited. Hermione had not been camping since she was a little child; besides, she liked organising and this gave her a great opportunity. Harry was looking forward to the best fun he had had all summer. If someone had told him that morning that he would shortly be spending the night in a bookshop with Hermione Granger, Prefect, eating and talking until the small hours- at least that was what he intended to do- he would have thought them mad. 

Hermione dropped two large packets of plain Kettle Crips into the trolley. "It's just the muffins left," she said, peering at the list. "What about chocolate and orange? It's a new line they've started and I think they're pretty good- for what they are." 

"Sounds great," replied Harry, looking perkier than ever. 

At the checkout, their cashier said with a wink to Hermione as she counted her change, "I see you've got him properly twisted round your little finger." 

Hermione gazed at Harry, who was leaning heavily on the trolley and doing absolutely nothing. She gave the cashier a wry smile and said, "Yeah, perhaps." 

"What was all that about?" inquired Harry, once they had left Sainsbury's and were on the way to the Army & Navy stores for the sleeping bags. "Why did she say that you had me round your finger?" 

Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes. "She thought you were my boyfriend.-" 

Harry let out a yelp. 

Hermione pressed on regardless, "And, well, it's quite unusual for the boy to just stand there while the girl does everything." 

Harry looked slightly more interested. "Is it? Why?" 

"Girls like to be bossed around." 

"You don't," Harry pointed out. 

"Behind each bossy woman is an even bossier man," recited Hermione, sounding uncannily like a more determined Luna Lovegood. "Girls like... a resourceful man; one who takes initiative. It's the Rhett Butlar complex." 

"The who what?" quizzed Harry. 

Hermione tossed her head. "Forget it, Harry." 

Harry frowned at her, raised his eyebrows but did not say anything. After a few minutes of silence, in which Hermione was deeply regretting her being born in the first place, her ever meeting Harry Potter and most importantly, her giving him girl friend advice, Harry suddenly asked abruptly, "Do you want me to carry the shopping?" 

Hermione stopped and stared up at him inquisitively. "Why do you ask? It's not heavy." 

He shrugged. A faint pink flush was covering his cheeks. Hermione's heart lept into her mouth. "Well... I thought you might want me to take it for a bit. You know..." He gestured pointlessly. 

Hermione smiled. "Thanks, Harry. Why don't we each take one handle? We can then share the weight." 

Harry looked surprised, but then agreed. He took one handle of the plastic bag, Hermione retained the other. They pushed through the crowds of shoppers like this, the bag swinging between them. 

"This is nice," said Harry conversationally after a while. 

"Yeah," replied Hermione, wincing as the sharp corner of a pineapple carton jabbed into her left leg and laddered her tights. 

Their next port of call was the Army & Navy Store where they bought two sleeping bags (Harry insisted on a red and yellow contraption with special rain shield while Hermione preferred a blue one with lace until Harry said it looked like something belonging to Umbridge) and then Harry 'phoned the Dursleys from a public telephone box. To Hermione, pleasantly squashed up next to him, the conversation sounded unnaturally short. 

"Hello, Aunt Petunia?" said Harry. "It's Harry. I missed the train and I'm staying the night in London." Pause- meaningless jabbering. "No, it's OK. I'm staying in a bookshop." More jabbering. "Sorry, my money's running out. Bye." Harry replaced the receiver with a crash. The change clashed into the dish. 

"Your money was _not_ running out, Harry!" said Hermione reprovingly. 

Harry collected his change and pushed open the creaking door. "So? It gave me a chance to get rid of them." 

By the time they had bought everything necessary for the night in _Morton's_, it was almost seven o'clock. Hermione was feeling hungry. 

"How about we head back now, then? We can get settled and eat the snacks." 

Harry had put his hands on his hips and was staring intensely down Oxford Street. Hermione thought, as she studied his profile, that he looked rather like a brooding Mr. Rochester. 

He turned to face her. "No," he said. 

"No, what?" 

"We'll have supper first. Come on. Do you like Armenian?" 

Hermione was confused. "What do you mean?" Perplexed, she started to help him pick up their packages. 

"We passed a nice looking Armenian place just a few minutes ago. I'm not sure where Armenia is, but isn't the food a bit like Greek? We can go there, if you like." 

"Why are you suggesting this, Harry?" she inquired, straightening up. "I thought we got the food for supper." 

"That's for the midnight feast," explained Harry stubbornly. 

Hermione surveyed him quizzically. "Midnight feast? _I_ intend to be asleep long before midnight!" 

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Do you really?" 

"Well... maybe not," she replied truthfully. The look in Harry's green eyes was enough to make her wonder why she was even considering passing the opportunity up. 

"Right then, that's settled. Let's go to _The Lotus Flower_." Harry grabbed her free hand and almost dragged her back down the road. 

_The Lotus Flower_ was a small, quiet restaurant serving relatively cheap food in a pleasant, intimate environment. There were real carnations and a flickering candle on each table. Hermione thought it was all very romantic. She wondered why Harry had taken her there. Her head and heart were giving conflicting answers. 

They did not return back to the bookshop until after nine o'clock by which time Mr. Morton had already gone to bed. Harry was giving an ear splitting yawn once every two minutes or so, and Hermione thought that they should think of retiring as well. 

While Hermione was in the bathroom, Harry set up their sleeping bags and picnic in one of the aisles; while Harry was reluctantly borrowing Hermione's spare toothbrush, she was searching for some required reading for Harry. 

His eyes widened when he saw the pile of dusty books dumped on his Gryffindor style sleeping bag. Hermione had not only found copies of all of Fanny Burney's novels for him, but she had also dug out _Gone With the Wind_, _Pride and Prejudice_, _Jane Eyre_ and _Middlemarch_. 

Hermione was sitting upright in her sleeping bag, leaning against a bookshelf and sipping pineapple juice through a straw. She grinned when she saw him. "Happy sixteenth, Harry!" 

He blinked, unzipped his sleeping bag and crawled inside. "I say, thanks, Hermione. It's really... kind of you!" 

Hermione smiled back at him and offered him a carton of fruit juice. "Well, I've sort of given up getting you and Ron interested in non-fiction, so I thought I'd try you out with a few novels. I know when I'm fighting a losing battle. Do you want orange, apple or pineapple?" 

"Er, what you having?" 

"Pineapple." 

"Then I'll have pineapple too." 

Hermione beamed and tossed him a carton. Harry ripped the straw off its side, jammed it in and took a slurp. He made a face then nodded and took a larger swig. He nodded. "Not as nice as pumpkin juice, but it's getting there! Cheers, Hermione!" 

They knocked the cardboard cartons together and drank appreciatively. 

"Well," whispered Harry a few minutes later. "What shall we do?" 

Hermione thought hard. "Let's sing." 

Harry looked very properly alarmed. "You are pulling my leg, aren't you?" 

"Not at all. What songs do you know?" 

Harry stared at her incredulously. "But- but what about Mr. Morton?" 

Hermione waved the problem away. "Oh, he's a very heavy sleeper." 

"Heavier than Ron?" 

Hermione considered. "Probably." 

Harry was relieved. "Then that's all right. What do you want to sing? I warn you, Hermione, I'm not very good." 

"Do you know _Grease_?" 

Harry was puzzled. "Grease? Only in the context of Dudley's hair." 

Hermione rolled her eyes. "No, the rock and roll musical. You know- John Travolta? No?" 

"Let me guess, this John Travolta, is he strong and forceful and does he take the initiative?" said Harry sarcastically. 

There was a faint blush on Hermione's cheeks. "Don't be silly- oh all right, I fancied him when I was about eight." 

Harry laughed and shook his head. Hermione frowned. "Anyway, there's a duet in it that we could sing. It's very simple." 

"Go on, teach me." 

"Right, you start. You sing- _Summer lovin' had me a blast_. Go on!" 

Harry repeated it, not entirely in tune, but perfectly passably. Hermione beamed and continued onto the next line. 

By the time Harry knew the whole song (he particularly liked belting out the _Tell me more, tell me more_ lines) and they were able to put it together as a duet, it was past half past ten and so dark that Harry and Hermione could hardly distinguish each other. 

They finished singing and collapsed laughing. "Pass the crisps, Hermione?" 

She threw them in Harry's direction. They hit him in the face and he cried out in surprise. "Oi- that hurt!" 

Hermione giggled and opened the muffins. They were giddy, drunk on freedom. Harry grabbed the nearest book, and squinting at it, read the first words that appeared on the page. "_'Would it please you if I said your eyes were twin goldfish bowls filled to the brim with the clearest green water and that when the fish swim to the top, as they are doing now, you are devilishly charming?'_ Hermione, for Heaven's sake, what have you given me to read?" 

But Hermione was not thinking about Harry's question. She was staring at Harry's green eyes, so much like twin goldfish bowls, glowing in the dark. She remembered, six years ago, as a pupil of the primary section of Orchard Row Girls' Grammar, wishing she had green eyes, wishing that Rhett Butlar existed- the first hero she had fallen in love with. That had been in the halycon days before Billy Barking moved next door and called her the Bushy Beaver, before it became a matter of importance not to enjoy your studies, before it mattered to have perfect hair, teeth and facial features. Girls hit puberty earlier than boys, but Hermione was not sure that was always a good thing. 

"What are you thinking about?" inquired Harry. 

She smiled up at him. "Nothing in particular." 

For the next few hours they ate, laughed, told 'Knock knock' jokes, discussed what NEWTs they would do and Hermione taught Harry more songs from _Grease_. It was all very pleasant. 

Even so, as midnight approached, Hermione felt her eyelids drooping and Harry's yawns were becoming more regular. However, he still did not seem to want to settle down. 

Eventually, in a general pause in the conversation, Hermione lay down on her back and pulled her sleeping bag around her shoulders. "Well, good night, Harry." 

Harry did not reply at first. Then he said, in an oddly strangled voice, "Are you sure you want to sleep? The night is still young, you know!" 

Hermione stifled a yawn. "Come on, Harry- it's past midnight. Aren't you tired?" 

Harry yawned so widely that he almost split his jaw. He shook his head emphatically. "No, I'm honestly not!" 

Hermione frowned. Then she sat up again and gazed at his outline. "Harry," she said, "you've been having nightmares." 

He did not reply. 

Hermione sighed and fiddled with the zip of her sleeping bag. "Oh, Harry, you have to sleep, you know." 

Harry's voice was somewhat strangled, when he replied, "No, Hermione." 

She was silent, then she said quietly, "What do you dream about? Voldemort?" 

"What else?" he replied bitterly. He paused and looked down. Then he continued in a subdued tone, "I dream about him killing my parents and Cedric. But those aren't the worst dreams. Sometimes I dream that I _am_ Voldemort, and then I- I kill Sirius." 

Hermione shuddered. She lay a hand on Harry's arm. "Oh, Harry." 

Harry swallowed and continued, still in that flat monotone voice. Hermione suspected that he found it easier when he could not see her properly. "I kill Sirius, then I kill _me_, you know. It's horrid." 

"But be glad they're only dreams, and not what Voldemort's thinking," said Hermione, attempting to sound reassuring, while she just wanted to weep for him. 

"Just dreams? _Just dreams_, Hermione? Would _you_ like to have nightmares where you're murdering yourself?" 

"No," replied Hermione, "it must be horrible." Gently, tentatively, she moved closer to him and took his hand in hers. He squeezed it in gratitude. 

"Well, Harry, next year you can carry on with Occlumency lessons- you will, won't you?- and you can try to stop these dreams. Perhaps Professor Dumbledore will teach you himself now that he knows how much you and Snape didn't get on." 

Harry did not reply. Hermione pressed on recklessly, knowing that it was hard for him to talk, but that it was better in the long term not to have it all bottled up inside. "Was Dumbledore very upset that you lost the prophecy?" she inquired gently. When Harry still did not speak, Hermione continued, "I imagined if Voldemort was after it, then Dumbledore wanted to know what it was as well." 

Eventually Harry spoke. His voice sounded strange even to his own ears, "He wasn't upset, Hermione. ... He already knew what the prophecy was." 

Hermione looked straight up at his tired eyes and her mouth made a round 'oh' shape. "And, did he tell you what it was, Harry?" she asked softly. 

Suddenly Harry did not care anymore. He just did not want to keep the knowledge of his fate to himself. He _had_ to share it or he would go mad. "Yes," he replied heavily, "Dumbledore did tell me. Basically, either Voldemort kills me or I kill him. That's how it'll end. There's no third option." 

For one terrible moment, he thought Hermione had not understood. Then, her arms were around him, her body was pressed against him, her cheek was lying against his and her tears were dripping onto his shoulder. 

Harry found him wrap his arms round her as he had never done before, in an agony of emotion. She held him, like his mother must have done, like Mrs. Weasley had done the previous year. But there was one important difference between Hermione and Mrs. Weasley. Harry had not felt accutely conscious of every single nerve in his body when Mrs. Weasley had hugged him, he had not felt an odd fluttery sensation in the bottom of his stomach when she had embraced him. 

"Please, Hermione," he said, and his voice sounded raw and hoarse as he spoke. "Don't cry, Hermione, please don't cry. You mustn't." 

She raised her head, tears still glistening in her dark eyes. She hiccoughed and clutched him tighter. 

Harry reached down and wiped a tear from her cheek. Her skin was soft and smooth under his touch. He was growing desperate. "Oh, Hermione, you must be strong. Don't cry, for my sake, or I shall too." 

Her breathing was ragged as she stared up at him. "Cry, Harry! Cry, if you want to; it's the best thing. Oh, you're right, Harry. I must be strong, _we_ must be strong, and then we can meet everything. Oh, Harry, you have me." She snuffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve. 

Harry felt an uncomfortable prickling sensation behind his eyes. He wished he did not have her sympathy, felt that he should not have burdened her with the truth, wished that he could have spared her the pain of knowing, yet felt also as if he had done the best thing he had ever done in confiding in her. 

He rubbed her moist cheek with his thumb and saw her shiver. Still she cried. "Don't, darling," he whispered, hardly aware of what he did, only that if she did not stop then he would not be responsible for his actions. Every feeling that he had tried to not think about since the end of term rushed upon his brain; Sirius falling behind the veil, the tear trickling down into Dumbledore's beard, Bellatrix Lestrange's taunting voice, Nearly Headless Nick's confession, Sirius' mirror... He was oblivious to all until something Hermione was saying penetrated his weary brain. 

"Kiss me, Harry," she whispered fiercely. "Kiss me, Harry." Her arms tightened round his neck. 

Harry looked down at her tearful face, pale in the little light; her lips slightly parted, her anxious eyes still bright with tears. He made a funny noise, a cross between a laugh and a cry and moved closer to her. She licked her lips and Harry could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. 

The kiss did not stay as chaste as Harry had possibly intented it to be at the start. As soon as their lips met, Hermione fell against him, with a little moan and Harry could not hold himself back. 

When he eventually pulled back for air, he had somehow managed to extricate himself from his sleeping back and was lying almost on top of Hermione, their heads stuck at a rather awkward angle between the bookshelf and the floor. Hermione met his eyes and said nervously, while catching her breath, "I'm sorry, Harry. I, er, I bet you wish I wasn't crying." She gave a shaky laugh. 

"I wasn't actually thinking about that." 

Hermione got a bit of her breath back. She was smiling. "Honestly, Harry, if you kissed Cho like that, she shouldn't have been crying, she should have _fainted_." 

"Is that a compliment?" 

She blushed. "Yes." 

Then, Harry said something that he had meant to say just before he kissed her, but had forgotten all about. "Hermione, if I were to say that your eyes remind me of two flagons of iced butterbeer on a hot summer day, would you be pleased?" 

She raised her eyebrows and Harry obeyed the unspoken command and kissed her again. 

* * *

In an obscure part of London was a narrow, dark alley. On one side of this alley was a dark, obscure bookshop, called _Morton's Antique Book Dealers_. It was dimly lit and dusty and smelt of old books, quietly decaying unnoticed. 

Inside, all was silent. Some light filtered through the grimy windows but the rest of it came from an old oil lamp perched on top of Mr. Morton's counter. The owner of the shop was one Mr. Morton. He was very, very old now and considered to be rather odd by all who knew him. Perhaps it had been living with very ancient books for almost one hundred years (or so they said) or perhaps there was another reason that ordinary people were not quite aware of, that caused Mr. Morton to be considered an oddity. Either way, his shop was very rarely frequented. 

Thus, it was very odd to Mr. Morton, one hot and lazy summer's afternoon, to hear the door of his shop clang as someone entered the shop. 

He stood up shakily from his chair in the office, fumbled for his walking stick and hobbled into the front of the shop. 

A young man and woman were standing there. They were both neatly dressed and were tolerably good looking. The man had a pair of brilliant green eyes and a scar on his forehead, that seemed to be the exact shape of a lightening bolt. 

But it was the woman who had caught Mr. Morton's attention. For though he had not seen her for almost five years, she had hardly changed at all. If it had not been for a certain darkness in her eyes that spoke of greater experience than was natural for her years, she could have been only sixteen. 

When she saw him, she threw her arms round him, almost knocking him off his balance. "Oh, Mr. Morton, how simply lovely to see you again! We should have come here sooner, but you see, we were rather busy!" 

A faint blush overspread her cheeks and she reached out for the young man's hand, a detail that did not escape Mr. Morton's eyes. His eyes crinkled into a smile. "Well, well, well, congratulations, my dear!" 

"You see," she continued rather breathlessly, "we were only married yesterday and we're off on our honeymoon in just a few hours-" 

"To Rome!" cried the young man, speaking for the first time. 

She beamed at him and continued to Mr. Morton, "Anyway, I desparately need something to read and there's a certain book that I know is out of print- has been for years- but I'm sure I can count on you!" So saying, she rushed round the first bookshelf. 

Her husband gave a philosophic shrug and then wandered after her. He did not follow her down aisle three but continued right to the back of the shop, refreshing his memory of the musty smell and the darkness. At the back, at aisle fifteen, he stopped and shook his head. It felt like years... absolutely years since he was here, yet it had not changed at all. 

He turned down the aisle and stumbled along it, feeling his way in the darkness. All at once, he tripped over something left lying carelessly on the ground. He bent down, picked up the little black book and blew the dust off the cover. He flicked through it and his eyes widened when he realised what it was. Then, biting his lip to stop his laughter, he walked quickly back to the front of the shop, still carrying the book. 

He placed it on the store desk without a trace of embarrassment. Mr. Morton looked from the book to its purchaser with raised eyebrows. 

"Do you know," said Harry Potter, "I'm going to buy this as a present for my wife." 

**The End**


End file.
